Spiderling
by thestarktruth
Summary: An open window into Black Widow's shadowed past, from her childhood to now. Featuring a collection of tales, as a mysterious woman pursues Black Widow's shadowed past - both the good times and the bad, plus cameos from some of our favourite superheroes and villains.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** This is my portrayal of Natasha Romanoff's story. I kind of wish it could compensate for not having a Black Widow solo movie, but this isn't good enough. I do hope I do it justice, though (let me know in the reviews if you have any feedback please). Most of the stories that will be included are backstories true to the comics.

Also, here's an index of the Russian words that are used in this chapter. I literally pulled them off Google Translate, so no, I don't speak Russian, and I'm sorry if I used them wrong and some Russian speakers are offended. Bear with me, please. :)

[Index: 'glupyy' - stupid; 'sozhaleyu' - sorry; 'chert' - damn; 'plokho' - bad]

* * *

One frayed yellowing paper and one stark white document lie on the military-grade desk, accompanied by a half-eaten cheese sandwich and a glass of beer, each to their respective tableware. In a skewed position nearby, a bronze plaque giving ownership to the desk sits upon it as well, but the light is hitting in such a way that the letters are obscured. The drawers of the nearby dresser are open slightly, dust drifting and settling on it now. A suitcase lies on the bed pushed against the wall, navy covers pushed back and held in place by a collection of various items, a gun is one of them. Its ominous presence is diminished by the floral dress under it, it's blue and red pattern colours matching with that of a book titled "Places to See In Russia".

A toilet's flushing noise, and then that of a sink's rushing water ensues, and then footsteps.

The freshly printed white paper becomes the first item to be packed inside the suitcase as an unseen hand picks it up. It is carefully folded, but not before the unseen hand's unseen owner quickly scans over it once more.

"'Latrodectus' is the scientific term for the black widow arachnid. The black widow is shy in nature and sticks to solitude most of its life. Unlike other spiders, they produce a messy, irregular web. Baby black widow spiders, also called spiderlings, start off as white, and develop their black and red colour as they grow," it says. It is apparently a print-out of an informative website. There are a few notes written in the cramped margins that cannot be made out due to their size... or rather, perhaps, the fact that the words are written in a code, forming nonsensical sentences. It is almost certain, however, that the writing has nothing to do with the information printed in the article.

Then, the scruffy paper is lifted quietly off the desk by the very same unseen hand.

It reads:

 **FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION**

 _ **CRIMINAL FILE: ROMANOVA, NATALIA A.**_

 **Subject Name - Last:** _ROMANOVA_

 **Subject Name - First:** _NATALIA_

 **Subject Name - Middle Name:** _ALIANOVA_

 **Alias/es:** _"BLACK WIDOW", "NATALIE RUSHMAN", "LAURA MATTHERS", "MARY FARRELL", "NATASHA ROMANOFF", "OKTOBER", "YELENA BELOVA"_

 **Home Address:** _890 FIFTH AVE., MANHATTAN, NYC_

 **Subject's Home Phone:** _UNKN._

 **Driver's License/ID Number:** _13-192-4059_

 **Family:** _NONE KNOWN TO CIA (CLOSE TIES TO CLINT BARTON, SEE FILE)_

 **Martial Status:** _UN-AFFILIATED (TO CIA'S KNOWLEDGE)_

 **Date of Birth:** _CIRCA 1985; OTHERWISE UNKN._

 **Sex:** _F_

 **Ethnicity:** _RU (Russian)_

 **Height:** _APPROX. 5'4"_

 **Weight:** _UNKN._

 **Hair:** _RED_

 **Eye:** _GREEN_

 **Place of Birth:** _STALINGRAD, RUSSIA_

 **Employer:** _SHIELD_

 **Occupation:** _GOV. AGENT; EX-KGB AGENT; AVENGER; SHIELD OPERATIVE; BALLERINA(UNCERTAIN)_

 **Marking Features:** _UNKN._

 **Criminal Charges:** _EVIDENCE REQUIRED_

Here a sticky note has been applied to the document, handwriting scrawled upon the worn yellow square:

" _to investigate further -_ _M_ "

* * *

 _ **RUSSIA. | MANY MANY YEARS AGO**_ _ **. | 0**_ _ **600 HOURS.**_

Two nine-year-old girls ran through the crowded streets of Russia, deftly dodging the vendors and their carts loaded with cabbage, bread, and other assorted foods.

One girl dawdled every once in a while, slowing when the scents from the street vendors misted her face with steam. The other urged the lagger on, grabbing her hand, and pushing her forward when time wasted.

The sprightly red-haired child stopped once more, causing the raven-haired to turn and pant out, "Natasha! Hurry! We might miss it!" Spurred by the prospect of missing the free food that the local bakery always handed out, Natasha began to sprint, nearly running straight into the raven-haired girl, who was standing three feet ahead of her.

This caused Natasha to once more receive an admonishment from her friend. "Natasha! Stop being so clumsy! You're never going to become that ballerina that you're always watching," the girl said exasperatedly. "Besides, I think we missed it." Natasha hung her head, her straight red hair now falling into her small face.

" _Glupyy_ ," the black-haired child muttered in Russian, shaking her head and causing her short locks to become even more tousled.

" _Sozhaleyu_ , Marina," Natasha sputtered. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

Marina sighed and put her gloved hands on her hips. "Yeah, well, I'm not the only one that's going to go hungry," she said pointedly. At that, Natasha's stomach promptly let out a loud gurgle, reminding her of how empty it was.

" _Chert_ ," Natasha said, pressing her cold hands on her hollow belly as if to somehow numb the pain.

"Hnngh!" Marina gasped. "Natasha, where did you learn that word? That's a bad word, that is!"

A laugh emanated from Natasha's hungry body. "Instructor Nikita is always saying it. I guess I picked it up!" she said cheerfully.

Immediately, Marina's mind conjured up an image of the blustery scraggly bearded instructor. She squinted at Natasha disapprovingly but tried out how the word felt on her tongue, eventually giggling with Natasha. Then they both promised not to use it again, agreeing that it was a curse, and therefore _plokho_.

They were now situated in front of an alleyway, both clad in an eclectic style of clothing, an amalgam of hand-me-downs and garish colours. An unknowing foreign spectator might have thought the layers of jackets odd, but then again, it was a Russian winter. And rather typical of Red Room trainees.

Marina tenderly re-wrapped Natasha's purple scarf around Natasha's pale neck.

"What are we going to do, Natasha?" She asked. "You want to see if the diner is throwing out it's leftovers from last night?" Marina scratched her head, then shivered as the cold morning air pierced the two of them. Bending over, Natasha zipped up Marina's threadbare blue jacket, pondering what to do next.

"In the Room, they say that hunger sharpens the mind," Natasha said slowly.

"Maybe," Marina said uncertainly.

A short pause ensued.

"Oooo!" The red-head bounced on her toes with enthusiasm. "I have a great idea!"

Marina raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms while she did so. "Please don't tell me you want to waste our day watching that ballerina practice again."

Natasha shuffled her feet, scuffing her worn pink sneakers. "Weeeell," she tried her hand at smiling winningly at Marina, who rolled her eyes.

"Fine," Marina said, unable to resist her best friend's charm. "Only to take our mind of our hungriness."

Natasha smiled, her green eyes shining, linking arms with Marina.

Both their stomachs growled, and giggling once more, the two dashed away, soon disappearing into the fog of the city.


	2. Chapter 2

[Index: 'da' - yes; 'Chto ty khochesh'?' - What do you want?; 'YA ishchu madam Alena. Mne nuzhno pogovorit's ney.' - I'm looking for a Madame Alena. I need to speak with her.; 'Zachem?' - Why?; 'suka' - bitch]

* * *

 _ **RUSSIA. | STILL MANY MANY YEARS AGO. | 1400 HOURS.**_

"I'll be like that one day," Natasha said, cupping her hands around her green eyes to look through the fogged up window. In the room inside, a woman stood posing in a black leotard and white leggings. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a perfect bun, and her blue eyes squinted in concentration. She was beautiful, like how a gazelle or a leopard or a panther was beautiful.

"Ha," a voice next to the red-haired child responded. "She's not even the prima, she's not the _main_ ballerina, Natasha. She's just a soloist."

"No," Natasha replied, turning to Marina. "No, but she's the best. Look at her." She turned her gaze back through the window, back to the room, where the ballerina was twirling on a pointed toe. "She's going to be the best of all of them." The ballerina had a content look on her face, almost a smirk, really a self-conscious smile.

Marina pulled on Natasha's arm, and she tore her eyes away from the ballerina. The two walked away from the box that Natasha was standing on to look through the high window. "One day, Marina," Natasha said, shoving her hands into her puffy green jacket's pockets. "I'll be the best, too. You'll see."

"Then you'll need a rich husband that will pay for your training, just like that ballerina, won't you?" Marina exclaimed. She kicked a pebble as they walked down the empty street. "You can't make it all on your own, Nat." They watched as the pebble rolled a little too far, and disappeared out of their vicinity.

Marina looked up at the darkening sky and sighed. "We've been gone for too long. We should go back before they start looking for us!"

Natasha made a deep growl in the back of her throat and whined. "Hhnngggggggggh. I don't want to go back to the Red Room.

"I want to be free."

* * *

The woman walked swiftly down the road, refusing to make eye contact with any passerby. A few vendors tried calling out to her, but quickly quit when they realised their cajoling wasn't going to go anywhere.

Her sneakers stopped in front of a grey door. The woman knocked harshly, making a face at the wait time before the door swung open.

A brown haired teenage girl stood in front of the door. "Da?" She asked in Russian. "Chto ty khochesh'?"

The woman rubbed the back of her neck, forming a sentence in faltering Russian. "YA ishchu madam Alena. Mne nuzhno pogovorit's ney."

"Zachem?"

After taking a pregnant pause to think of the Russian words to explain herself, the woman just converted to English. "I just need to talk to her. It's private business. May concern the government."

Shaking her head, the girl thumbed at the dark space behind her. In heavily accented English, she said, "Not here anymore."

"Damn," the woman muttered.

Looking around furtively, the girl beckoned for the woman to lean in. "Maybe I know vhere to find her."

"Yeah?" The woman raised one eyebrow suspiciously.

"But, ah, I vould like something- "

The woman dropped two coins into the teenager's hand. "Tell me."

* * *

 _ **RUSSIA. | MANY YEARS AGO. | 1300 HOURS.**_

"No, Nat. She moves like, like, like a snowflake in the air," Marina paused before continuing with a laugh. "But you? You look more like a dog chasing a squirrel." Natasha drops her arms and legs from where she was posing and sticks out her tongue towards Marina, who was perched on a crate.

"I'll be just as graceful!" Natasha exclaimed. " _I'll_ dance for royalty, while you clean up after them in their palace. Ha!"

"You may make money dancing that way, Natasha, but only because people will pay you to stop!" Marina wiggled her eyebrows.

"Hmph."

"Maybe you'll get carted away to be studied because they believe you're possessed!" The raven-haired girl waved her arms around, imitating Natasha, and fell backwards on the crate's top, wiggling around. "Whoa," she said, stopping her antics.

"What? What is it?" Natasha walked over to her friend and leant over her. A shiny black pistol lay in the snow next to the crate, half-buried.

Marina shuddered and pointed at it. "It's _real_! Do you - do you think it was used for murder?"

Natasha grabbed the pistol and examined it in her bare hands. "We should hide it here. And tell no one."

"Why?" Marina watched as Natasha removed a brick from the alley wall and placed the gun inside it.

"Because it's valuable, Marina. It's ours now!" She turned and faced Marina. "Don't tell anyone."

"Ah, ok," Marina admitted defeat. "Come on, we don't want to miss the bakery, they'll be throwing their leftovers out soon!"

The two began racing down the streets.

"Anything better than the food we get in the room!"

* * *

 _ **THE NEXT WEEK.**_

"Gah," Natasha yelped in frustration as she crouched on the window ledge. "I really want to get in there, Marina."

"NO!" Marina whisper yelled. "You'll be picked up! And you'll be in big trouble..." Her face fell at the notion of it.

Natasha leapt down and held her friend's hands earnestly. "But I want to hear the music. _And_ it's warm in there!"

Natasha climbed back up and slowly opened the window, making sure that the ballerinas practising far beneath it wouldn't be able to see or hear her. Waving an excited hand at Marina, she crawled inside, onto one of the rafters.

She looked for the ballerina, _her_ ballerina, the special one. There she was! Dancing away like a dandelion fluff in the breeze.

Suddenly a door slammed open, and Natasha nearly fell off the rafter in her surprise. The music stopped issuing from the piano, as the player peered curiously at the newcomer. The newcomer was a man, a brown-haired man with a horrible expression on his handsome face.

"Come on," he growled at Natasha's favourite. He grabbed the blonde ballerina's arm and pulled her towards the entrance. "I said now. The car's waiting."

"But it's rehearsal, Andrei!" She exclaimed, looking nervously at the surrounding ballerinas. "I can't just leave now!"

The man turned to look fiercely at her. She continued. "You say you want me to be the best, but how can I if you don't let me practice!" Her voice faltered as her husband yelled.

"Don't confuse your hobbies with who pays for them, _suka_!" He struck the ballerina across her pale face. A collective gasp passed around the room. Everyone looked away awkwardly as the man glared at them. "Get in the car," he said in masked annoyance.

His wife gazed at him with tears pooling in her blue eyes. She tenderly placed her hand on her smarting cheek, trying to keep her emotions in check.

"Okay," she whispered.

The two walked out together, the man leading the humiliated woman.

Natasha watched it all from her place in the metal rafters.

It was the warmest it had ever been in a long time. Like summertime, when she and her parents would go visit the meadow near the house, and, well, those were good times.

How it could have been, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

[Index: 'milyy' - darling; 'a-deen' - one; 'dva' - two; 'tree' - three; 'chye-tir-ye' - four; 'glupaya devushki' - foolish girls

* * *

 _ **STALINGRAD, RUSSIA. | MANY MANY MANY YEARS AGO. | 1500 HOURS.**_

A large meadow covered by flowering grass was occupied by only three people - a man, a woman, and a young girl around the age five.

"Shhh," the woman, with red hair and sparkling green eyes, whispered to the girl, who was nearly identical in physical appearance. The sun beat down on her wide smile. "Look." She pointed a weathered hand at the man lying next to them. "Look, Natasha, Papa is sleeping!"

Natasha giggled and scratched her small ear. "Mama!" she said after a little while. "You know what we should do?"

The girl's mother lay back on the soft grass, and responded, "What, _milyy_?"

Natasha put her head on her mother's flat stomach, which was empty from feeding Natasha her own provisions. "Let's make a flower crown and then put it on him!" Her mother laughed.

They threaded red and white and pink flowers and green stems into a crude crown. Then, together, they placed it on Natasha's father's head.

He awoke with a start. "Huh?" He breathed out. Natasha's father glanced about wildly and then focused on his beautiful wife and daughter. He smiled and held out his arms and they fell into them.

What a pretty picture they made, the cloudless blue sky matching the blueness of Natasha's father's shirt, the dark gritty earth, the green grass dotted with bursts of colours...

Natasha's mother nuzzled Natasha and kissed her forehead. Her father hugged them both close.

They were happy then.

* * *

The woman sat at a local coffee shop, although the beverages they served there could hardly pass for coffee in her opinion.

She took a sip and instantly grabbed more sugar packets, cursing her sweet tooth.

The grey light of Stalingrad filtered through the cafe windows, casting a watery aura over the whole place.

The woman sighed at the gloominess and spread out the old black-and-white newspaper she held in her hand over the cafe table. It dated back to many years ago, near 1993.

"BUILDING BURNED BY ENEMY FORCES", the headline screamed.

The rest of the article followed as such:

" _A fire occurred in a building last night as an enemy plane bombed the city. Many Soviet soldiers came to the rescue soon after the plane passed over, and were able to hose down parts of the fire. However, nearly 200 people were trapped and could not escape, leading to the assumption of their deaths. Only twenty-three are reported to have survived._ "

A picture of a young red-haired girl held in the arms of a tall Soviet soldier accompanied the article. The caption read, " _Ivan Petrovitch Bezukhov holds little Natalia Romanova after saving her life._ ".

Needless to say, the words "Natalia Romanova" were underlined by a dark red pen.

The woman checked her watch. She still had time to go see if the information the teenager had given her was correct.

She got up, tossing a couple dollar bills on the table.

* * *

 _ **NATASHA'S DREAM. |**_

 _ **STALINGRAD, RUSSIA. | MANY MANY MANY YEARS AGO. | 2000 HOURS.**_

A man screamed outside.

Jumping straight out of bed, Natasha ran to her parent's room.

"Mama? Papa?" She gasped out, rubbing her eyes. She felt as if the walls were closing in on her. Or was that... could it be...

"Smoke?" Her father exclaimed, rolling out of bed with his scruffy brown hair. He shook his wife awake. "Anastasia, wake up, the building is burning."

Natasha squeezed her eyes shut, willing all the heat to go away.

Her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her and her father towards the door. They moved like they were still dreaming.

They were not.

* * *

 _ **BACK IN THAT MUSTY BALLET STUDIO. | 1700 HOURS.**_

Natasha bolted awake, sweating. She sat up and assessed her surroundings. The sun was near the edge of the window, it was dropping, causing the whole warehouse-like room to glow gold.

"Marina," she mumbled, her throat dry from lack of water. "Marina will worry."

Natasha guessed that it had been around three hours since she had last seen her best friend. It must have been the warmth of the studio. She cursed it, cursed the warmth for bringing back old memories and ruining new ones.

The ballerinas had all left the room by now and even the old piano player had packed up and left.

Loosing open the window again, Natasha crawled back out. She cast one last longing look at the barre.

The ballerina _had_ to come back.

* * *

 **THREE DAYS LATER.**

"I don't think we should come here so often, Natasha. They're going to come looking for us," Marina said, sitting uncertainly on the same wooden crate she had sat on many times before.

Natasha stood on the top of the crate, reaching for a purple jacket on a clothesline slightly out of reach. "I told you already. I don't want to go back. Besides, they won't find us in the streets. And they don't _own_ us."

Marina lightly shook the snow off of her short black hair and blinked her blue eyes. "They don't. But tell me what you'll eat then."

"The bakery - "

" - is closed today, Nat."

"I'll figure something else out."

"No, you'll go hungry."

Natasha tumbled off her crate after reaching too far. She sharply turned towards Marina, shaking her shoulder-length red hair out of her eyes. "In the room, they say hunger sharpens the mind," she said flatly.

Suddenly she perked up. A black car was pulling into the street parking slot. Natasha recognised it.

"She's here, Marina! Come on, let's go watch again!" With a look of grim determination on her little face, Natasha ran towards the car and towards the front doors.

Marina followed her, complaining all the while. "Why can't we ever watch after supper?"

The car had now pulled to a stop, the shaded windows reflecting the dark snow piling on the stairs of the ballet studio. Natasha waited breathlessly for the door to open and for the ballerina to come out.

The car door opened. The woman stepped out. But she wasn't a ballerina anymore. How could she be when her leg was twisted and broken and her arms hindered by crutches?

Natasha watched in horror as the blonde haired woman hobbled up the stairs in her purple sweater.

"I just need to collect my things," the woman said, her face set and tired and her brow furrowed.

One of the two men waiting responded, "Be quick about it!"

"Wh-what's happened?" Marina asked. Natasha's face fell and she felt the cold sting across her reddening cheeks.

"Now she can't dance!" She clenched her fists. "He did that to her! He did it!"

"Quiet, Natasha! They'll notice us!" Natasha began to run in her blue boots. "Nat! No, don't!" Marina yelled after her.

Natasha fiercely ran up the car's hood and began stomping on the top, raining snow down the windows. "Why'd you do that? Why? How could you? You're mean! She was so good! What is she going to do now?"

The man sitting in the backseat of the car grunted. "Get her off of the car," he said to the hulk of a man sitting in the driver's seat.

The large man reaches out of the window and pulled on Natasha's short leg. "Let's go child."

"Not until he answers me!" Natasha shrieked. The man swung the car door open and threw Natasha to the icy ground. Natasha's face squeezed with pain as she felt four new bruises form on her back and elbows.

"Let's go, Max," the ballerina's husband growled from inside the heated car. "I'm tired of waiting." The ballerina stood on the other side of the car, having gathered her stuff, and glanced hurriedly at Natasha. The blonde woman frowned downcasted. She shook her head slightly. _This is not your fight_ , she seemed to be saying.

The black car rolled down the street, accelerating slowly. Natasha scrambled up from where she lay and picked up a heavy grey brick.

"No! We need to get out of here before the police arrest us for being a nuisance, Natasha!" Marina grabbed Natasha's arms and looked her in her green eyes.

Natasha shoved Marina aside and glared at the car, sweaty palm clutching the brick. It began to slip, aided by gravity.

It was now or never.

"NATASHA!" was the cry that she heard as she hurled the brick at the car.

With a loud, echoing smash, the brick shattered the back window. Natasha gazed at the mess she had made, stunned.

"Go teach that child a lesson!" The ballerina's husband's voice rang out in the otherwise silent street.

"Nat - we need to go!" Marina began to run, panic and fear of punishment over-riding her loyalty to her best friend. The driver came out of the car, a long wooden club hanging from his right hand. Natasha turned quickly and followed Marina, soon overtaking her.

The two girls turned onto a busy street, and Natasha pushed Marina into a store. "Go hide in there!" Marina gave Natasha a frightened look, but obeyed. "I'll go hide too! Hide! Hide!"

Natasha dashed away, aware of the thug closing in on her.

She ran faster.

He ran faster.

She ran into an alleyway. _The_ alleyway. Grabbing a red tarp, Natasha pulled it over her head while removing the gun she had hidden in the wall earlier that week.

Footsteps. "I saw you come in here, you little weasel. Come out, come out, wherever you are - You don't think I can see you? Come now, you can't hide behind that, little girl."

Natasha swallowed under the tarp and gripped the gun in her perspiring hand. _Just remember what you learned_ , she thought to herself. She counted in her head...

 _A-deen. Dva. Tree. Chye-tir-ye. Pya -_ the man snatched the tarp from over her head.

 _ **BLAM BLAM**_

Natasha opened the eyes that she had squeezed shut before pulling the trigger. The huge man was kneeling in front of her, looking at the bullet holes in the wall _behind him_.

"No," Natasha muttered, adjusting her aim as the man turned and leered at her.

"I think I'll take that fancy little gun with me too - "

 _ **BLAM BLAM BLAM**_

The man slumped against the wall, pawing at his chest horrified. There was blood on his shirt, on his jacket. Coming from a hole in his chest, that _she,_ Natasha, had created. The man's eyes closed and he moaned.

Footsteps behind her. Natasha jumped up and whirled around, still holding the gun in her hand. It was Marina.

"I didn't mean to!" Natasha cried out. She tossed the gun to the ground, avoiding the pooling blood on the cement, and ran to meet Marina.

"Come on," said Marina in a trembling voice. "Let's get away from here. Hurry!"

The two of them ran across the street, dodging the cars that didn't see them because of their short height.

"Almost there," Natasha panted. "Almost - " Marina's grip on her hand loosened and Natasha felt it slide away. Marina had tripped on the sidewalk curb. Heart racing, Natasha reached out for Marina's arm, ready to haul her up and start running once more.

But it was too late. Marina's eyes widened at something or _someone_ standing at Natasha's back. Natasha froze as a gloved hand roughly grabbed her shoulder.

" _Glupaya devushki_ ," said the woman, growling at Natasha and Marina in annoyance. "Come."


	4. Chapter 4

Index: 'Zdravstvuyte' - hello

* * *

 _ **THE REFLECTION ROOM.**_

It was cold in there. So cold. Natasha scrunched herself up on the metal chair, sitting on her small hands to keep them warm.

What would they do with her? Send her away? If so, where?

Natasha gulped down her disappointment and just prayed that Marina was alright. If it came down to it, she would put all the blame on herself. Anything to protect to her best friend. Because that's what best friends did, right? Natasha wasn't so sure.

The redhead stared at the blank walls surrounding her. They were lit up by the sickly yellow light fixed to the ceiling of the small room, and devoid of any decorations, all carbon copies of each other, except for one.

The wall that Natasha's chair was facing had a mirror on it. Natasha looked at herself in it, frowning and slouched over, her eyebrow furrowed sadly over her green eyes.

Of _course_ she knew that it was a one-way window. One time Bogdan had come back from the 'Reflection Room' and told the children everything. How the lights had flickered every once and while and how no sound penetrated the thick walls as he awaited his verdict. And how Instructor Benson and Instructor Vera were sitting behind the mirror, watching him.

Natasha sniffed and closed her eyes. She didn't want to spend more time looking at her sorry, wretched, self.

The ballerina was so beautiful. Natasha wished she could dance like her. She wished she was that _good_.

* * *

 _ **OUTSIDE THE REFLECTION ROOM. | IN FRONT OF THE WINDOW. | WATCHING.**_

"What will we do with her?" The man peered at the small girl over his dark glasses and a hooked nose.

The woman sitting next to him yawned. "We'll bring her back to the room."

"After all of this... exposure?"

"It's healthy for them to escape once in a while. It's good to see how they perform in the real world," the woman said. The man glanced at her before returning his gaze to the window, stroking his brown moustache. The woman continued. "Natasha shows potential. A great deal of promise. She's good - she could be _the best_."

* * *

The dingy-appearing apartment loomed over the woman. Clotheslines extended from its windows to the opposite ones on the building across it. The zig-zagged and crossed over each other, a jungle of lines overhead. Colourful clothing choices flapped in the cold wind, clipped and draped over the clotheslines.

The woman, having swept her dark hair into a bun, swung her neck gently from side to side, stretching it out.

She had buzzed the apartment 608 and was now waiting for an answer. She tried again.

" _Zdravstvuyte_ ," a regal voice said from the speaker.

"Alena?" The woman spoke close to the buzzer's connecting microphone.

"Ah," the voice responded. "American?"

"I suppose."


End file.
